


Christophe Gets Dirty

by clownerooni



Category: South Park
Genre: Buried Alive, Claustrophobia, Hurt, Mild Gore, Panic Attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2020-04-02
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:21:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23447689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clownerooni/pseuds/clownerooni
Summary: Christophe is buried alive.
Kudos: 4





	Christophe Gets Dirty

**Author's Note:**

> Tried to make this as realistic as possible but shrug

Christophe inhales the deep smell of earth and immediately bolts upright, slamming his head on something hard.

He's dizzy for a moment, blinking away the stars as he forced himself to breathe evenly.  
It seemed his heartbeat was amplified, as well as his shaky inhales and all the little shifts he made to assess his surroundings.  
His ears were ringing, his head was swimming so much he slowly stumbled into the realization that he had been drugged. 

A scattered beat rattled the surface above him, he startled, a little dirt trickling down onto his face and making him sputter.  
Dread settles deep in his gut.  
His mind screams at him to panic, start pounding on all the walls and howl at the top of his lungs, but he keeps quiet. 

Christophe was in a coffin. 

It's smartest to sit there for a moment, letting his eyes somewhat adjust, it was deep enough, the ceiling was maybe half an arm's length away, but all he could see was the outline of his hand.  
Anger blazed through him and he slammed it, curled into a fist, on the ceiling, once and once more with all his frustration packed in, knocking more dirt onto himself. 

His face twisted into a snarl.  
How long had he been in here?  
Was he already too late?

Christophe shuts those thoughts down.  
Can't waste time on stupid shit like that.  
This needs to be quick.  
He knows what he has to do.

Christophe inhaled slowly as he began feeling around this coffin.  
He noted the quality of wood, sturdy, a little concerning.  
But it still had edges and gaps, he traced each one with his fingers and nearly cried out when he found a gap just barely wide enough between two panels that he could wiggle his fingertips into. 

Luck must be on his side tonight, piece of shit god.

He had a gap, his hands, and at least 7 hours to get himself through this.  
So he hopes.  
His mind battled him, wanting to work out why he was in this mess, and even worse, thinking about what would happen if he didn't fucking do this right.

What a way to go, gasping for breath until inevitable loss of consciousness.  
Buried alive, nobody knowing where he is.  
Nobody is looking for him.

But he had trained for this, he's done this, he can do this now.

He ignored the dirt stinging into his eyes as he started scraping at the gap with his rough fingertips, moving along the crack to search for more of an opening.  
Then he's fumbling because he remembers he needs to pull his shirt up to his mouth and nose.  
What good would he be if he was choking on the Earth.  
He inhaled slowly again.

Adamantly ignoring tearing of his fingertips against the splintering wood, he trudged on.  
It hurt like hell and it was definitely a process of trial and error, gripping the lip, pulling, slipping off the edge. Wood chips were collecting under his short, scraggly fingernails, and it was quickly making him bleed.

He had to keep his anger in check, he wanted to cuss and scream and throw himself around in a tantrum until he was red in the face.

His other hand reached up and tried shoving those fingers into the gap too, just to see if it helped any.  
It was to the sacrifice of his pointer and middle finger but the moment it felt secure enough in his grip he wasted no time to brace his knee on the ceiling of this coffin and use his entire body weight to tug at the plank. 

But his fingers slipped, and the wood jammed under his nails and tore one halfway back.  
Christophe grit his teeth, grounded them, and made himself focus on his breathing.  
Fuck, survive now, panic later, survive now, panic later.

He fought the tremors of his hands and repositioned his fingers, his previous efforts had created a little more wiggle room thankfully, so with a bit better of a grip he tried again.  
The plank leaned in a little bit, but his fingers slipped again.  
His nails were shredded.  
He hissed, and persisted, getting his fingers in there another time.

The ends were so bloodied, dripping onto his face, and they burned horrendously, almost numb. 

Christophe sucked in another slow, deep breath, then he really dug his fingers in and pulled slowly, the wood gave him a little more, Christophe held his breath.  
Readjusting the grip on one hand and with a creak, a chunk of the wood snapped off, allowing a small cascade of dirt into the space with him.  
A relieved laugh bubbled from his lips but the celebration subsided quickly.

Ultimately he was able to shove his hands in and through the wall of soil and start to pry at another slat.  
He tugged until his shoulders popped, the plank bending and squeaking, leaning inward, until it cracked apart more.  
He held the piece over his face as a shield against the rush of dirt filling in around his form.  
Knowing that if he broke the hole wider that it would start the timer, he would be covered in dirt, and he would have to be on the move to get out of here before he can't take another breath. 

Christophe pressed a hand to the shirt over his mouth.  
Took one long shuddering breath.  
Let it out.  
And then tried to take a bigger one.

The boy adjusted his legs up and wedged his feet near the edge of the broken part and pushed with all he had.  
It snapped much easier, and as expected, he was encased in the soil he let in.

He needed to dig now.

Flecks of dirt filtered in through the fabric, tickling his nose as he drove his arm right into the loose soil.  
He gripped the dirt and pulled, wiggling his shoulders up and using the broken edge of wood to carry his body forward. 

The earth was thankfully soft, not too heavy, he would be able to thrash through relatively okay, but the main concern was how fine the dirt was and how much was slipping past the filter of his shirt.  
With the leverage of soil, Christophe was able to propel his head and torso through the narrow opening he had made, giving him more room to shift his legs. 

An immediate feeling of suffocation enclosed around him, to have the dirt surrounding him at all angles, it made his skin itch, and crawl.  
His chest seized.  
His freed legs felt strange and foreign to him, but he utilized that last solid platform, and gave the bottom of the coffin a firm push, pulling one leg up to climb through and out into the underground entirely. 

It was difficult for his lungs to inflate with all the weight that was squeezing him, such small accommodations could be made.  
He was desperately clawing through the dirt and tugging his legs hard along behind him.

He thinks that maybe his last breath wasn't enough.  
No, fuck, no that doesn't matter just GO.

He forced his body to keep shifting and flailing to keep him moving.  
Though the questions were still able to fight through his mind. 

How deep was he?  
Was he even moving?  
How long did it take for him to get out of there?  
Was he going to pass out? 

Christophe pushed on despite this, and dampened his burning chest and the urge to choke on all of this dirt he was getting in his mouth.  
It stung at his eyes and tried to fill his nose. 

A stiff patch of dirt caught him a little and he panicked, he was stuck, this was it, he-  
Lurching up, he felt a tight pop and he flinched hard, the searing pain in his ribs making his vision go white behind his eyelids.

He pushed a little more and wheezed, breath hitching and the tightness won't let up.  
Another thick pop.  
Christophe cursed himself relentlessly for falling into hyperventilation, desperate to find the air he needed. But he wasted a few precious breaths of air and he swore if this fucked him up, if he was going to make it this far and suffocate 3 feet below the surface he would be PISSED.

It fucking hurt to keep going.  
But he had to.  
He had to be close, he was going to make it, god be damned and fucked and skinned and slaughtered.

He was a great digger, he can dig.  
He can keep his pace, and he can calm himself, savor another thin delicate breath to keep his brain awake. It's fine. He's done this before, it felt different, but come on, come on.

his head was swirling so dangerously and he felt the nausea settling in alongside every other thing that plagued him.  
His body was threatening to shut down, betray all the fight he had put into this.  
The sharp pain that coursed through his entire body, the exhaustion settling into his muscles and even his bones, the sound of nothing but this dirt tickling the inside of his ears. 

Christophe made himself reach higher, using everything he could to get him by.  
Then his fingers broke into an icy substance- the air, above ground!  
It stung like fire as he wiggled them for proof, both creating more of an opening and letting the feeling of freedom sink in. 

He fought back the idea that someone was up there waiting for him to emerge so they could jump him.  
To make himself feel better he focused on forming a plan and convinced himself that he could take it, or at least book it. 

His adrenaline was raging, he swung his other arm around through the dirt and kicked his legs harder, scraping and scrambling, throwing his shoulders to and fro.  
He wasn't ready to die.  
He wasn't going to die.  
His entire torso was screaming at him.

When his head broke through it was hard to suppress his gasp of breath.  
He knew it would crush his ribs even further. 

So Christophe followed through, waiting to have enough grip to completely pull himself above ground  
To be released made him want to cry, or scream, but he did neither, not yet, adrenaline.  
All he could do was wheeze, sucking up what little air he could into his dry lungs.

He drug himself up and away from the hole, his body with no choice but to collapse flat against the ground.  
His head flopped one way to check for figures, then the other.  
He was alone.

"Fuck!" He was voiceless, nothing but a strained whisper.

He managed to flip himself onto his back and took a cautious deep breath, but the nausea was making him gag, if he had anything in that stomach of his he would have thrown it all up right there, but instead he choked.

That's when Christophe's body got the best of him.  
He broke into violent trembles, and dragged his damaged hands to clutch his shoulders.  
Holding himself together so to speak, as his human nature took over. He heaved a broken sob, his chest aching as another followed, and then another.

His senses were telling him to get more air, but his lungs could only take shortening his breaths, his nose was so clogged, his voice was cracking when he whimpered.  
Everything was going numb from his shoulders down.

With however much he could move he rolled onto his side and eyed the hole he left behind.  
Sheer terror knocked the wind right out of him, and he gagged into a cry.  
He was so fucking pissed.  
Christophe threw a fist weakly against the ground, then again but harder, and then he let it rest.  
He focused on how his body was feeling, he had no lethal injuries, his ribs were definitely dislocated, but they had not hit anything vital. 

But it was annoying, it hurt, and this whole situation had him on edge. 

How he managed to drag himself underneath a berry bush, he wouldn't know.  
But it felt good to have the chance to calm hjmself down, breathe evenly, slow. To not have to fight for his life anymore.  
How did he get in this mess? 

He probably pissed somebody off, and he must have had his head up his ass or something to allow himself to be taken like this.  
Drugged and buried several feet underground. 

It was infuriating, he wanted to find whoever it was and break them in half, shove dirt down their throat and see how they liked it.  
Christophe continued to cry as he rested there, with nothing he could do to stop it or the full body shivering or the raw fear that still nestled in his chest.

He curled up on his side, deciding to wait before dragging his sorry ass out of the woods.


End file.
